


Time

by Lady of Prompts (Aethelflaed)



Series: BINGO [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Almost Love Confession, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Comfort, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Communicating (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Manicures & Pedicures, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Pre-Body Swap (Good Omens), The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Wing Grooming, reassurance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:53:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27549397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelflaed/pseuds/Lady%20of%20Prompts
Summary: After the Apocalypse, before the body swap.Aziraphale and Crowley wait out what might be the last night of their existence, too afraid to reach out, too afraid to speak. Until one of them finds a way to reach across the divide.--One glance over his shoulder, back at the door. He could go back. Apologize. Open himself up to the one being he knew would never hurt him. Say the words that had sat on his tongue for countless centuries.He could, but he wouldn’t. Not tonight. He needed time. Time to get his head on straight, to learn to be honest with himself, to know what it was he even wanted.And time was the one thing he didn’t have.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: BINGO [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2017241
Comments: 15
Kudos: 118
Collections: Kisses Bingo





	Time

**Author's Note:**

> Kisses Bingo prompt fic! This one fills the prompt "Wrist Kisses" and "Wing Grooming" but primarily the second (the first gets a brief mention at the very end). This is one of my two "soft loving makeover" fics (manicure and wing grooming) - the other is "Depth of Beauty" (make-up and hair braiding).

“So that’s it.” Crowley lounged against the wall, arms crossed. Not looking at Aziraphale. Not looking at anything.

“Yes. I pretend to be you, you pretend to be me. Hellfire. Holy water. We survive.”

It wasn’t easy, keeping his voice steady. Aziraphale mostly managed it by not looking at Crowley, not thinking too hard about it, acting as though it were nothing more than some clever logic problem. Most certainly by not imagining what would happen if they failed.

“Don’t like it.”

“Come now,” he tried to smile. “Let’s not start over again. We’ve considered every angle. The plan works, and it’s our – our best chance.”

Crowley grunted as if regretting his promise already. “Not going to argue. Just. Don’t like it.” He’d been belligerent since the moment Aziraphale had suggested the swap, inspired by his own recent experience with discorporation. He’d expected Crowley to dislike the idea, but the demon had fought against it, tooth and nail, every step of the planning process.

Not that Aziraphale didn’t have his own doubts. He’d struggled to keep them at bay since stepping off the bus. Now he pressed his hands together, ordering them not to tremble, as the fear started to grow in his gut, building, pushing out into his limbs and his heart.

 _Choose your faces wisely –_ that was clear enough. But _playing with Fyre_ could mean many things, only one of which Crowley was immune to. What if he’d missed something? What if there was more to it?

What if the prophecy wasn’t intended to save _both_ of them?

He imagined Michael’s sword, blade aflame, swinging towards Crowley while he was bound to a chair—

It wasn’t a noise, just a sharp intake of breath as he pulled himself back to reality, but it was as loud as a scream in the silent room. Crowley’s head snapped around, eyes pinning the angel through his dark glasses. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.

“Nothing.” Oh, his voice didn’t sound certain at all, his eyes still burned in the imagined light of Heavenly swords. Aziraphale cleared his throat and tried again, but no words at all came out this time, just a strained squeak.

Heaven would see this coming, surely. They would suspect as soon as Crowley stepped into the flames. He needed to outsmart them, needed to think of the next step, and the next, a hundred moves ahead, but he didn’t _have time…_

“Angel.” Crowley’s voice was sharp, a whip crack cutting through the silent room, and Aziraphale cringed, huddling into himself instinctively. “Bless it, Aziraphale, if you’re having doubts too, we need to _rethink this._ There’s still time, we can – can take off, be out past the Oort Cloud before either side notices. I know plenty of stars they’d never think to look.”

“Crowley, _no._ We’ve been over this already.” His voice didn’t sound calm but at least it wasn’t breaking anymore. “We can’t hide forever, they’ll – they’ll find us eventually.”

“I’d rather they chase us across the galaxy than – than stand around _waiting_ for them to grab us. At least we’d have a chance. At least we’d have _time.”_

Aziraphale wanted that. Time. More than anything, he wanted time to think, to plan, to prepare. To stand beside Crowley and not be afraid.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? There was no future if they ran, no earth, no _them,_ just this one terrifying moment, stretched on and on for eternity, poised forever at the last moment before the attack. Always waiting. Always afraid. He couldn’t take a life of this, he couldn’t even take one night of this.

He was so lost in his own thoughts – torn between wanting time and wanting it to be over – that he didn’t even notice Crowley’s approach until the hand landed on his shoulder. It wasn’t rough – it was the gentlest touch, barely felt through his jacket – but the suddenness of it startled Aziraphale, making him stumble away.

“Crowley! There’s no need – I’m – please—”

“You aren’t _fine,_ don’t try to tell me you’re _fine,”_ he spat. Then, in a lower voice, “Talk to me.”

It was too much. Already he’d nearly given in to the fear, but this – this moment of concern – it tugged at him, threatening to break his last thread of dignity, of control, and that was the only thing keeping him going right now.

“There’s nothing more to discuss.” He tugged at his waistcoat, trying to school his expression. “And if – if you’re just going to argue, I’d rather you left me in peace.”

“Aziraphale…” A warning.

“I mean it, Crowley.” He interrupted, fighting to keep his mind from shattering. “That’s enough. _Go!”_

Crowley spun away, with a noise halfway between a snort and a snarl, and stalked through the enormous revolving door, disappearing into the next room.

Leaving Aziraphale alone with his thoughts.

–

Crowley glared at his trembling plants, burying his fingers in leaves, tugging at them for any sign of weakness, of spots or yellowing, any imperfections. But he didn’t really see them.

His mind kept shifting, jumping between a bookshop in flames, a voice in a bar, and the sudden appearance of Aziraphale at the airbase. A hurricane of worry and relief and fear and longing with nothing remotely like calm at its center.

He wanted to run to Aziraphale. Override all his objections, drag him away. Haul him off this world, to the stars, to Andromeda, to the farthest corner of the universe, far from the beings that wanted to hurt them, had hurt them again and again for thousands of years.

It wasn’t the first time. He’d wanted to at the airbase, run up, grab Aziraphale by the lapels. Make sure he was unharmed, shout at him to stop taking foolish risks. The same at the church in 1941, the Bastille in 1793, again and again, across centuries of companionship –

Wanted to reach out, pull him close, promise that everything would work out.

But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Never could. Maybe never would.

He’d always blamed it on their sides, needing to stay apart to stay safe. But he didn’t have that excuse anymore, did he? And that’s all it was. An excuse.

It was Crowley’s nature to be cold and distant. Aloof. Project coolness and confidence so that no one could see what lay underneath, the shattered worthless wreck of demon. Keep them all at arm’s length, even the being he least wanted to push away, and where did that leave him?

Alone in his solarium, shredding the weakest leaves off a fig tree, on what could be the last night of his personal eternity.

Had he always been this way?

Crowley didn’t think so. There had been a time when he’d been open, inquisitive, carefree. Long ago, before the Fall, before six thousand years in Hell and on Earth, before he learned…everything.

He could never go back to that. You couldn’t unlearn the truth of the world, once you’d learned it.

One glance over his shoulder, back at the door. He could go back. Apologize. Open himself up to the one being he knew would never hurt him. Say the words that had sat on his tongue for countless centuries.

He could, but he wouldn’t. Not tonight. He needed _time._ Time to get his head on straight, to learn to be honest with himself, to know what it was he even wanted.

And time was the one thing he didn’t have.

–

Aziraphale rested his hand on the door frame, wishing he had the courage to step through.

It was his own fault, of course. He’d pushed Crowley away. As he always did. It was easier.

He didn’t belong here, among humans, beside a demon. Simple fact: he was an angel, and he belonged in Heaven. There was no place else an angel could exist and feel whole and happy.

That, he’d always told himself, was why he had this aching emptiness inside – because he was far from his home, corrupted by earthly influences. A degraded angel.

Heaven talked a great deal about love. Angels love Creation, they love the humans, they love God most of all; they love each other, and they love him. In spite of all his flaws, he was constantly reminded, they loved him.

And he believed it. For a long time, he believed, because not believing was dangerous, and painful, and terrifyingly. And because, well…because that’s what he believed love _was._ How was he supposed to think otherwise? It was the only thing he ever knew.

But six thousand years on Earth slowly eroded his ignorance. He saw humans develop friendships, saw them fall in love, saw them care for their children, their parents. Saw some become cruel, or manipulative, or negligent; saw others be loyal, and warm, and welcoming even to strangers.

He learned all the ways that love could be expressed. All the things that masqueraded as it. What it could look like. What it _should_ look like.

And even then, he could keep pretending that he found that in the cold, distant praise of Heaven, but only so long as he could pretend he _didn’t_ find it anywhere else. That he didn’t have a being in his life who always supported him, always stood by him, never made him feel flawed or broken, never abandoned him.

Even now, when it might mean destruction for both of them, still at his side.

In the face of that, how could he ever believe that Heaven loved him?

He pushed the thought away, back into the dark recesses of his mind, where he’d carefully hidden it from himself for longer than the lifetime of civilizations. It was still a dangerous thought, a dangerous word. A distraction.

It wasn’t the _time_ for such things.

He had to put their survival before everything else. It meant staying here and facing their former sides head-on, not running away and waiting to be caught. It meant deceiving Heaven and Hell, not angering them from some foolish desire to fight or take revenge. And it meant facing the challenge with cool logical minds not clouded by any newly acknowledged emotions. It made sense.

The best thing he could do for himself, for Crowley, was to keep his distance tonight.

–

_I need a new plant mister._

For ten minutes, Crowley had managed to keep himself focused on pruning the trees, silently clearing out some leaves or stems to make room for new growth. The emotions raged somewhere deep inside, but the surface was as calm as ever. But then he noticed the arrowhead plant was a little dry, went to give it a bit of water, and realized the bottle was gone.

Hastur had destroyed his plant mister, and he needed a new one.

He could simply manifest one, he supposed, as easily as he’d created the pruning shears. But the ones at the corner shop were so cheap, it was easier to just grab one on the way to Aziraphale’s bookshop, and take a few moments to see what new sprouts had arrived, then stop over at the bakery for some coffee and one of those crispy pastries.

Except.

Except there wasn’t a bookshop anymore, was there?

Which meant he wouldn’t be heading over tomorrow, or the next day, or ever again.

No more surprise breakfasts before the first customers of the day. No more late nights sharing a dozen bottles of wine and arguing about philosophy. No more perusing the poetry section when Aziraphale wasn’t looking, or thumbing through the latest illustrated guides to botany or astronomy that always found their way onto the shelf beside his sofa.

No more secretive walks in the park to share secrets and feed ducks. No more shoddy pretenses for a weekend drive. No more weaving the Bentley through four lanes of traffic.

The world _had_ ended, but only for him and Aziraphale.

It wasn’t fair.

After everything they’d done, everything they’d suffered to save the world, they still lost everything and _it wasn’t fair!_

The knot of emotions he’d been holding back broke free in a flash, flooding him faster than he could control it. With a shout he hurled the little plant at the wall, cracking the pot, spilling soil everywhere. Then he grabbed the aloe vera, the orchids, the antherium. One after the other, thrown against the wall, the floor, the window.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He screamed, pulling over the umbrella tree, shredding all its leaves. “All of you! You worthless pieces of shit!” He kicked over a dragon tree. “You had your fucking chance! No more excuses, no more second chances.” A glass bowl full of air plants; he snatched it up and smashed it hard against the table, shards spinning off in every direction. “Make your fucking peace with the soil, because every one of you is—”

“Crowley!”

He spun around to find Aziraphale watching, wide-eyed, from the doorway.

_Fuck._

Well. That’s the end of _that,_ he supposed. After that sort of display, Aziraphale wouldn’t want anything to do with him ever again.

He clenched his fist, turning away, but that sent a sharp pain through his hand. Hissing, Crowley looked down to find a shard of glass, stuck in the side of his hand. Of course. Exactly what this day needed.

“Are you hurt?”

He shot a glare at the angel, suddenly beside him.

“Just a scratch. Leave me alone.”

Aziraphale’s hand landed lightly on his wrist, pulling the hand over for closer inspection. “You need to be more careful, Crowley.” He ran his thumb lightly up the side of Crowley’s palm and the little triangle of glass fell free.

“I’m not going to – to die from a little cut, Aziraphale.”

He’d meant it as a joke, of a sort, but Aziraphale’s hand tightened around his. “Don’t.” The angel’s thumb brushed across the cut, making it disappear in a small burst of healing. “You need to be more careful.”

“It’s a bit late for _careful.”_ He tried to pull his hand away, but Aziraphale ignored it, bending over as if to inspect his palm for damage. “Look, Angel…”

“What a mess!” Aziraphale tutted. “An absolute disgrace.” But he hadn’t so much as glanced at the graveyard of ruined plants all over the floor. Instead, he was inspecting Crowley’s nails. “And you expect me to go out wearing these tomorrow?”

“You’re one to talk. I saw the state of your wings earlier. Have you groomed them this _millennium?”_

“Even if I hadn’t, it still wouldn’t compare to this – this—” He held up Crowley’s hand, nails caked with dirt, cracked, uneven. “I thought you took pride in your appearance.”

“I’ve been a bit busy.” Crowley snatched his hand back and tried to walk away.

“I don’t want an argument tonight.”

“Then stop trying to start one!” He took a deep breath. “If it bothers you that much, I’ll go take a shower. You wait in the kitchen, or wherever you want.” He glanced around at the mess he’d made. “Don’t bother cleaning. No point, is there?”

“Crowley, stop!”

“It was ‘go’ before, now you want me to stop? Make up your blasted mind.” But Crowley stood still, glaring at him. “What is it? What do you want?”

“I want to take care of those nails.”

“You _what?”_ But Aziraphale’s face was dead serious, set in his most stubborn frown. “Look, you fussy bastard, this isn’t – we don’t have _time_ for this!”

“You have somewhere else to be tonight?” But when Aziraphale's hands reached for his again, the touch was strangely gentle. “Let me take care of these. Please.”

The demon groaned, but what was he supposed to do? _Not_ say yes? “Fine. If you insist.”

–

Crowley stared at Aziraphale, sitting cross-legged on his bed. Between them was a bowl of warm water, an array of tiny torture implements, and a towel, which Aziraphale had used to briskly brush the dirt from Crowley’s fingers. Now he held the demon’s right hand, turning it this way and that to inspect each nail in the light of his halo.

“That’s a little better,” Aziraphale murmured, picking up the clippers and starting to trim.

“You know, I can do this myself.”

“Can you? Really?” It was strange, having his hand held this way. Entirely in Aziraphale’s power, unable to move, yet it was only the lightest pressure, really. Firm, but gentle. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you chewed them.”

“Only when they break.”

“That isn’t funny. Look at this.” He lowered Crowley’s right hand and picked up the left, pinching the thumb between his fingers. “Just look!”

“Looks like a thumb.”

Another _tsk,_ and Aziraphale set to clipping again, not trimming each nail as low as he could (as Crowley usually did), but instead quickly removing the sharp edges or cracked portions, leaving a few millimeters on each. When he was satisfied, he picked up an emery board. Crowley expected him to start scrubbing roughly, sandpapering his nails smooth. Instead, with a few quick delicate motions, he reshaped each nail into a perfect oval. Now and then, he paused to scrape underneath with the point of a nail file.

“What is this, anyway?” He held up the tip of the file, covered in hard flakes of black residue. “I thought it was soil, but it isn’t the right consistency.”

Crowley gulped. He remembered charging into a burning shop. Driving for almost an hour in a flaming car. Falling to the ground at the airbase more than once—

“Dunno,” he said weakly. “Could be – lots of things…”

Aziraphale’s hands hesitated over Crowley’s smallest finger, and he could see how the emery board trembled. _Yeah, you’re cleaning the last of your bookshop out of my nails. How does that feel?_ Crowley wished he had something comforting to say, but he just felt hollow. The day had left him without anything to offer.

With a deep breath, Aziraphale steadied his grip and got back to work.

“Why?” Cowley found himself saying, as the angel moved back to his right hand. “Why are you wasting your time on this?” _On me?_

“Don’t be foolish. Time spent with you is never wasted.” Blue eyes flickered up again to catch his gaze before focusing on the nails once more. “Although I do wish you’d put a little effort into basic maintenance without my needing to nag you.”

“But—” He bit his words off, not knowing what to say. “Why?”

“Why? Why? You spend an hour every day on that ridiculous hair, not to mention _weeks_ spent putting together your – your ‘new look’ every few years. I would think you’d agree that personal grooming is its own reward.”

“No, I…” He watched the long, thin board move back and forth. His fingers were curved slightly in Aziraphale’s grip, pinned in place by his thumb. “I just thought you’d want to be alone.”

Silence for the length of two fingers. “Why on Earth would you think that?”

His stomach was hard as a rock, twisting with emotions he couldn’t name. “I…I’ve been awful,” Crowley confessed. “All night long, since we got back, I argued, I snapped at you. Threw a tantrum. The other day, I shoved you against a wall. And…and this morning I called you stupid…I’d think you’d want to be as far from me as possible.”

“As I recall, _you_ were the one who wanted to abandon _me_ for the stars.”

“No…” But he _had_ said that, hadn’t he? “I didn’t…I wouldn’t really…”

“Oh, hush.” Aziraphale frowned and moved to the last nail. “I’ve known you for six thousand years, Crowley, I’m _well_ aware you have a temper. I have never held against you the things you said, or did, when you were angry.”

_I have plenty of other people to ‘fraternize’ with. I don’t need you._

“Never?”

“Never.” Aziraphale put down the file and pressed Crowley’s hands between both of his. “I’m sorry I didn’t make that clear.”

He lowered Crowley’s hands into the bowl of warm water. Aziraphale had added some sort of soap, and it clung thickly to his fingers in a pleasant way.

“Still…I don’t like you to…to see me like that…”

“You’ve seen me at my worst,” Aziraphale reminded him. “Do you think less of me?”

His worst? Crowley couldn’t even imagine what that would mean. The embarrassing smile as he showed off his latest magic act or shouted encouragement at the actors in a play? The possessive gleam when he saw a priceless first edition, whether one of his own or one he was about to acquire? His incorruptible desire to see the good in absolutely everyone, even Gabriel, even _Crowley?_

“No,” he whispered as his heart surged anew. “No, I never have.”

Aziraphale nodded, watching Crowley’s hands as they soaked in the water. “It’s good, you know, to-to have a simple ritual in a time of stress. Something you can walk through, step by step. Unhindered by, ah, by emotions. Very calming.”

“I do feel a little better,” Crowley admitted.

“I expect you do. But…I meant for myself.” He lifted Crowley’s hands free of the water and gently patted them with the towel. “I’m…I’m…well, I’m rather convinced I’m going to let you down tomorrow. Not play my part well, or…or lose my nerve…or overlook some vital clue…”

Crowley felt the tremors in Aziraphale’s hands before he suddenly pulled away, fingers twisting in the towel, pressing it against his mouth. But he couldn’t hide the wave of emotion that overtook him before Crowley’s eyes.

“Angel!” Crowley grabbed his shoulders, newly manicured fingers feeling more sensitive against the fabric of his shirt. “Aziraphale look at me.” Slowly, the blue eyes came back into focus. “We don’t have to do this.”

“We do. Crowley, it’s the only way.” The towel crumpled further as he crushed it in his grip. “I – I – I won’t – I’ll find a way, I just need to – to buck up…”

“Are you scared?”

“What? No, I – I—”

“Because I am.” Crowley let go with one hand to pull his glasses free, toss them aside, then reached up to brush the back of Aziraphale’s hand. “Have been for…longer than I can remember, but then I lost you. Last night, and this morning, and then…the fire…” He swallowed. “And you know what? Each time it felt _more_ real and _more_ painful than before, and I don’t…I can’t…”

His gut heaved. The hollowness he’d felt after the fire opened again, threatening to devour him, permanently this time. “Aziraphale. I am more terrified right now than I’ve ever been in my life, and I don’t know how to stop it. So. If you’re scared…that’s fine.”

The towel fell, and Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand in both of his again, but this time clinging to it, clutching it, pressing Crowley’s fingers against his lips where the towel had been a moment before. Crowley reached with his free hand and…what? Touch his face? His hair? What was he supposed to do?

Before he could decide, Aziraphale seemed to blink his eyes clear and look again at Crowley’s nails. “Just a few hangnails to trim, and then we’re done.”

“Nh. Yeah.” He settled more comfortably. “Whatever you want.”

–

Aziraphale held Crowley’s hand, carefully massaging moisturizer across his palm, between his fingers, and into his nail beds. Memorizing the shape of them, the knobby knuckles, the veins on the back of his hands.

He’d wanted to do this once before, when the thoughts that needed to be hidden, even from himself, had threatened to overwhelm him. 1941. He’d longed to sit Crowley down and wash his feet, check them for burns and injury after his walk across hallowed ground. Let the activity distract his mind from the thoughts and emotions he couldn’t afford to acknowledge, and just be there, in the moment, caring for Crowley. Appreciating him. Holding him.

It was just as well he hadn’t attempted it back then; evidence tonight suggested it didn’t work.

He ran his thumbs across Crowley’s palm one last time, smoothing in the moisturizer, feeling the skin plump up, taking note of the calluses here and there just below the fingers. He didn’t want to let go.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, when his fingers had lingered perhaps a bit too long. He looked up to meet the demon’s golden eyes. They were soft tonight, and vulnerable, and filled with pain that tugged at his heart. But that pain seemed to be fading, replaced by…by one of the things Aziraphale was not supposed to be naming. What with the thunderous pounding of his heart in his chest and the blood in his ears, Aziraphale almost missed Crowley’s next words: “Thank you.”

Very suddenly, his heart went absolutely still.

“You…you’ve never…said _thank you.”_

“Grave oversight.” Crowley turned his hands over, running his thumb across his newly manicured nails. “This is…yeah, this is nice.”

“Ah. Well.” Aziraphale waved a hand, neatly teleporting his supplies into a different room. It was his usual method of cleaning up – eventually, things would wind up where they were supposed to be – but he realized alarmingly late that this now meant he and Crowley were simply sitting on a bed together. “I…I suppose I should thank you. For, ah, for indulging me—”

“Should I…return the favor?”

“Ah!” He snatched his hands against his chest, as if afraid Crowley would steal them entirely. Well. That wasn’t _quite_ what he was afraid of. “Return? How – how would you – Crowley, my nails are – are already in tip-top shape, and you wouldn’t—”

“Your wings. Like I said,” Crowley went on, familiar sharp edge slipping into his tone, “absolute mess. You’re one to talk about grooming, carrying around two disasters like that.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale was about to snap something else, but his eyes accidentally met the demon’s, and there was nothing mocking about them at all. Anxious, shy, almost waiting to be hurt. Did he always hide that expression behind his glasses?

“I, ah…I’ve never…how do we do this?”

Crowley’s eyes went wide. “Ngk. Unh. I mean. Sit there or…or maybe…lay down? On your stomach?”

“Ah, yes, I wouldn’t want to – to get tired, holding them up.” Aziraphale stretched out across the top of the duvet, resting his cheek on one of the pitch-black pillows, and extended his wings.

He could have sworn he heard a heavy breath – maybe a gasp, maybe a sigh. “Just as I thought. Look at this utter disgrace. When was the last time you preened?”

“Well, as I never walk around with them out—” Aziraphale was cut off by an impossibly gentle touch, two fingers brushing lightly across the leading edge of his wing. It felt… _good,_ an electric shiver that ran down his wing and up his spine.

“Oh! S-sorry.” Crowley sounded embarrassed, which was something Aziraphale had never heard before. “I shouldn’t have…is this alright?”

“Yes. It’s…it’s very much alright.” He wrapped his arms around the pillow, feeling the need to brace himself, and stretched his left wing slightly. “Please, continue.”

The touch of Crowley’s palms against his wings was electrifying, yes, but also gentle, soothing. He carefully explored down the length of them, not stirring any feathers yet, just learning the ways they lay against each other, where they grew thick, where the flight feathers emerged. Aziraphale could feel the feathers that were out of place now – they snagged and tugged against Crowley’s hands, bunching in the wrong spots. Uncomfortable, the way sitting in a chair too long could be uncomfortable without even noticing.

“You’re lucky you didn’t need to fly,” Crowley remarked, scolding, as if it was an everyday risk, instead of something that hadn’t come up in five thousand years. His fingers now flicked around the shortest patch of Aziraphale’s coverts, just shy of the leading edge, finding one of the culprits. Manicured fingertips burrowed deep into white feathers, hot against the skin and muscle beneath, and with a few quick but gentle scratches twitched it back into position. “Does this hurt?”

“No…That feels…” Crowley traced the feather from base to tip, pushing the barbs back into the correct alignment. A few more strokes ensured it lay, flat and neat, alongside the rest.

“One down, dozens more to go. And that’s just this side. Hope you’re comfortable.”

He was, though. Aziraphale closed his eyes, sinking into the gentle rhythm as Crowley moved – feather by feather – across his wing, setting each to rights. He felt as though a burden were being lifted, the worry in his stomach slowly unknotting, bit by imperceptible bit, as if the world were fading away, leaving nothing but that touch.

By the time Crowley reached Aziraphale’s alula feathers, the pain in his gut was gone. As he worked his way back across the primary coverts towards the scapulars, Aziraphale began to forget what he’d been worried about. Then the warm fingers ran down the first of his flight feathers, and time stopped entirely.

–

Crowley had never imagined Aziraphale’s feathers could feel so different from his own, but they did, so soft and delicate he would have believed they were pieces of clouds if not for the warmth that emanated through them.

Was it because angel feathers were somehow more pure? Or was it simply a matter of familiarity – that his fingers had stopped even noticing the texture of his own wings?

He was nearly finished. Really, he was done already, but his hands still glided across coverts and primaries, feeling for anything out of place, any excuse to delay longer.

“Right there, please.” Aziraphale suddenly interrupted. “Just…just a little itch. Could you…?”

“Got it.” Crowley let his fingers sink in again, scratching gently at the base of a feather. “Here?”

Aziraphale just murmured in relief, a little sigh. Crowley had knelt beside him to better reach the wing, but now Aziraphale shifted, pressing their hips together. “This feels simply marvelous.”

“Y-yeah,” Crowley said, clearing his throat. “S’why you’re supposed to do it _regularly.”_

“I should have asked you to, years ago.”

Crowley smoothed the feathers back into place. He was finished. It was time. Time to switch and part ways, possibly forever.

He didn’t lift his fingers from the edge of Aziraphale’s wing.

“Would you have?” Crowley wondered, surprising himself to hear the words out loud. “Would you have let me, if I’d asked?”

Stirring, Aziraphale tucked his wings away, all that glorious heat vanishing to another plane. He rolled over and considered Crowley, but didn’t sit up yet. “I’m not sure. I…I would have wanted to. But…well…”

“And if I’d – I’d asked for other things?”

“I don’t know. Would you have asked? If I’d indicated my interest?”

Somewhere, the sun was rising. Somewhere, the day was starting. Time, never any time.

“I don’t know,” Crowley confessed, the words ripped from his soul. And then, not letting himself think, he fell forward, onto the pillows.

Aziraphale caught him, pulled him into an embrace. “I want to find out, Crowley. What we are. What we can be. I wish…I wish…”

Long fingers reached up to cradle Aziraphale’s cheek. “I know, Angel. I know. We’ll get our chance.”

Aziraphale nodded, though the tears in his eyes said he didn’t believe it. A brush of fingers on the back of Crowley’s hand, and Aziraphale turned to kiss his palm, his wrist. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I wasted our time. And now…”

“No, you didn’t waste anything.” He pulled Aziraphale roughly against his chest. “You hear me? _Nothing._ I’m…I’m glad for every moment we had.”

The angel didn’t respond, just sobbed, once, face pressed into Crowley’s shirt.

“Shhh. We’ll survive this. I swear it. And then we’ll have eternity to figure this out. Alright? You and me. And…and things will be different this time. I’ll be different.”

“Don’t you dare,” Aziraphale said, his arms locking behind Crowley, strong enough to break his spine. “Don’t you change a thing, Crowley. I don’t want anything to be different.”

“Really? You’re _happy_ with how things were?”

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale pushed back, just enough to meet Crowley’s gaze, eyes wide and wet and earnest. “So…so very happy, when we were together.”

“Well, then.” Crowley bent forward, resting his lips on the top of Aziraphale’s head. “That’s what we’ll do, yeah? Be together. Forever.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I wrote this while...REALLY down, back in August, and never got around to posting it because I thought it must have so much wrong with it! In the end, there were only a few typos, and I had to change which plant needed misting because I've actually learned a few things about plant maintenance since then.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this story! I've now written something like FIVE Pre-Body-Swap fics, and I guess I'm never going to be finished with them. :D Drop me a comment to let me know what you thought about this one!


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